


2143

by yolklessegg



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angry Kissing, Assassins & Hitmen, Body Worship, Conspiracy Theories, Corruption, Cults, Dancer Dong Si Cheng | WinWin, Eventual Smut, Future Fic, Government Conspiracy, Kinky, M/M, Puzzles, Secret Organizations, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Stripping, Touch-Starved, Touching, War, yuwin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 18:25:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17903258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolklessegg/pseuds/yolklessegg
Summary: In which touching has been made illegal, and a heartless assassin falls in love with a night-time stripper.The year is 2143. Living too long makes you feel less human. Burn your skin and eat glass to feel alive. Feed the sys2em. Feed 1he system. Feed the s4stem. F3ed the system.





	1. 1NTRODUCTION

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first ao3 work!! i hope you guys like it. it gets a lot more interesting as it goes along! 
> 
> -soy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was going through the yuwin tag and found a fic similar to mine. i doubt any confusion will surface but i originally wrote this fic back in October, maybe even later, and it is based off of a writing i did with a friend
> 
> -soy

-

It's hard not to get addicted to the feeling of being touched. In fact, it's nearly impossible. You touch yourself in every way possible, but the moment someone else's fingers brush against your hand, you feel fire spread across you **r** body. Sometimes it's good fire, sometimes it's bad fire, but it's fire nonetheless. And every night, Sicheng throws a match into the pool of gasoline pouring out of touch-starved men and women.

Eyes, dark like stones, drift down and set themselves onto the digital clock that sat in the corner of his computer screen as he w **o** rked himself faster. Time was running out, but he had impatient men and an uncomfortable situation to deal with. Fingers dig into rose buds, prodding at the petals, pushing them aside, and pressing against the **s** tigma of the delicate flower. Moans rung out from the boy's red lips as he came undone, cheeks flush with afterglow. He pressed his back against the couch, chest heaving with delicate and desperate breaths. A small smirk, cat-like and light, curved against his lips as he leaned over, pressing a kiss to his hand, then to the camera, turning off the stream. 

Dong Sich **e** ng was delicate— hips dipped like teacups, waist curved and petite, serving as a contrast to his broad shoulders and height. And as he dressed, his soft, feminine figure disappeared under long—too long, to which he cuffed—dress pants and a striped, rust-coloured button down shirt. Sicheng gathered his belongings, fixing his mussed up hair as he scurried along the perimeter of his shared apartment, picking up key **s** , his phone, his ID card, and a spare change of clothes. Once items were stuffed into a small, black backpack, straps were slung over his shoulders and he went for the door. 

H **a** ving not bothered telling his roommate goodbye, Sicheng closed the door and locked it, before heading down the metal stairs. All he could feel was the click of his shoes dancing across the walls and into his chest, an echo of lonesome. The walk to work wasn't fa **r** , but he never walked alone, a close friend pressing kisses along the inside of his hand. Handle made of ivory and gold, he held the switchblade close to his body, and his eyes presumed a hard exterior shell as he walked down the dark, scolding stre **e** ts of downtown Tokyo.

 Neon lights—pink, purple, blue—illuminated Sicheng's featu **r** es—pointed nose and marble-chiseled jaw, sharp eyes and soft, cherry-like lips. Engraved on the edge of his eyebrow was drawn a scar. Though faded, in certain lighting in high contrast, it marked his face and showed his past. Scars ran along his body, his neck, his arms, but he n **e** ver touched his legs. His thighs were soft, and like milk, white and pure.

The streets were nearly empty, people drifting towards their apartments as the curfew draws near and the day comes to an end. You aren't allowed to look at them—the people—for the people are not allowed to look at you. Their skin is rough and cut into pink, purple, blue pieces, their words are col **d** and drowned out with the soft patter of rain. It seemed to always be raining in this apocalyptic world, but it could never rain enough to flood over the grime and dirt that it was dusted in. 

Sicheng never looked at them—the people—for the people never looked at him. But when he did, he'd been met with the same glazed-over eyes, bearing coal and cold. He would choose to look to the ground, his shoes, whatever he could do to avert his eyes from the pitch black voids of other people.

Walking down the short flight of steps down to the bar, Sicheng adjusted his soft-pink mask up to his nose again, as it'd slid off slightly. He pulled open the door, warm fingers around the cold metal handle. Everything seemed cold, nowadays, the only thing warm was the heat from o **v** erheated computers, sexual flush, and the lighters of cigarettes.

The door struggled open, and as he walked **i** n, he caught the warmer eyes of his coworker as he stood by the bar, arms busied and lax.

"Late," he had mouthed, turning back t **o** the few regular customers that came for the 4-11 PM bar. Sicheng shot him a grin once he pulled the mask from the lower half of his face.

Sicheng watched as the c **l** ock hands on the nearly ancient grandfather clock ticked towards eleven. He sat nonchalantly at a bar stool, glancing over at the stranger that sat beside him. Sicheng straightened out his back, placing his elbows on the table as one arm stands erect, playing with the loose brown tufts of hair. The shirt sle **e** ves, having been too big on him, slid halfway down his forearms. His eyes studied the stranger, not truly in honest interest. He was provoking. He loved the attention.

Sicheng's attention was turned to the hiss of the plastic shutting closed as the clock strikes eleven. Slots, tiny slo **t** s, enough for the drink to go through, were cut and built into the large plastic wall that encased the bar area. Implemented first when the 31st law was passed decades ago, the architecture was designed for the mere-impossible contact of skin.

Jaehyun, black hair stuck neatly onto his forehead, pulled the string, and the chiming sounded, bringing even the most drunk' **s** attention towards him. It was a signal for the closing, a signal for an opening.

"Alright, folks. Closing time," Jaehyun stepped out from the bar booth, signalling for the other workers to start gathering drunks who left themselves in the bathrooms and seats. Sicheng sat unmoving in his seat, eyes focused and trained on the dark-haired man that sat in the stool, unnerved, thought confused. There was a sudden click, a spark of curiosity th **a** t sounded through the caverns of Sicheng's mind, and his eyes drifted to the thick leather gloves that lay untouched and unused beside the man's drinks. 

Skin, bare, **r** emained exposed for Sicheng's mind and eyes, thick veins running up the dorsal aspect, and calloused, though soft, fingers cross one anoth **e** r in a folded position. 

In a blink, Sicheng's hand had **b** rushed against the man's, and in a b **l** ink, a quiet smirk crossed Sicheng's lips. The man's eyebrows f **u** rrowed and a look of confusion contorted his face as he looked up into Sicheng's eyes. His eyes weren't cold, though remained desolate and morose.

In a blink, Sicheng's hand drifted off of the man's, and in a blink, the world changed colour—from pink to r **e** d. 

-


	2. SANC2FY

-

The night was dark, street lights and neon signs creasing the ever foreboding darkness. The streets now were empty, light eating at black, sullen roads. The streets now were filled with a government controlled life form. A life form to kill.

Bots—as most would call them—patrolled across the perimeter of each district, casting thin whirring and dim, red lighting. Bots—government regulated-controlled the curfew of Tok **y** o, of Japan, of Eastern Asia.

To av **o** id them is to cross paths with alleyways and passed o **u** t druggies and gangs. Never, though, will you get the automated voice and buzzing out of your head.

Underneath those roads were organizations, tunnels, strobe lights, and secrets. If you listen hard enough, you c **a** n hear the sin whisper through the lone wind. If you focus hard enough, you can taste the salt of sweat-stained skin against you **r** tongue. If you try hard enough, you can turn your whole world upside down and join them. Join the flip-sid **e**. Join the ride. Join the underground.

"Join today for a second one for free—" The excited male voice distorts into silence as Jaehyun sets the TV remote down and unties the black apro **n** from his waist. The last of the few men were leaving the bar, and the ligh **t** s were slowly dimming.

Jaehyun seemed vanilla, hiding behind a thousand of other South Korean immigrants that had come to the island of Japan to escape from the blossomed commotion between North and South Korea. His hair was nothing but black, cut neatly though often messy—nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing at all. The perfect, imperfect civilian of Tokyo.

After shutting every main entrance, Jaehyun's attention is turned to the only door left unlocked. Silent, dark—entirely, but it almost felt as if the walls were glass. The hand on the door knob wasn't nervous, but **h** esitant. There was a thick breath of air that passes through Jaehyun's lungs with lace, followed with the crunchy squeak of metal and the knob is t **u** rned.

Silent sound and euphoria fills the di **m** room as if energy spilled from the room in front of Jaehyun's eyes. Jaehyun steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. Suddenly, from the dearth of livelihood to vivacious beings, the room c **a** me to life.

"Jaehyun-ah, can you zip up my shirt? I can't reach." The voice is sharp and prominent through the faint trill of music that acted as a background to Jaehyu **n** 's story. 

"You literally have about ten other people who could do this for you," Jaehyun sighs in discontent, reaching over to the zipper of the glittery shirt. "Where's Sicheng?"

"Ask Jungwoo. The gang's backstage. Get dressed," Ten says briskly, sparing no mind or thank you's his way. 

Ten was illegal in a political sense. After Thailand refused to host Japanese refugees in their country, Japan ha **d** shut down all ports and flights to Thailand. Ten, being fully Thai and compulsive, had illegally immigrated to Japan and found himself in the heart of crime and perjury—an underground club. Purple was his colour, but crimson trailed in his name. Young, he was, but ready to jump into the flame as quick as a fly to h **o** ney. 

With Ten's comment, Jaehyun recedes into the backstage area where costume acts and performers hid. Looking around, he sees a family of contraband and he was the father. He doesn't bat an eye when he looks around and sees bare-skinned men dressing in scandalous clothing, embellishing themselves i **n** the mortal and human conceptions of lust and greed. Like ravens, they were, trailing glitter, silver, gold up their bodies. And what is **t** his for? For the thrill, of course. 

"Jungwoo-ah, have you seen Sicheng? I lost him," Jaehyun asked and **p** laced a warm hand on his younger's bare shoulder.  

"Hm?" Jungwoo turns his body towards Jaehyun in response. "Oh, yeah. He's doing his mak **e** up. Why?"

"Thanks, babe." Jaehyun sends him a quick smile, before it slips off just as fast. That's how things were in 2143. Fast. Befo **r** e Jungwoo spoke another word, Jaehyun left, fast. Fast.

Looking forward, **J** aehyun notices the thin figure of the boy, back bare, and shoulders thrown back and decorated in cheap gold body glitter, a halo of light formed around his silhouette as he sat in front of the mirror, a pencil drawn to the lid of his eye. 

"Sicheng?" Jaehyun draws near and stands behind him. "Fuck's sake, I might as well have searched the whole district for you. Why'd yo **u** leave early last night?"

Sicheng doesn't bother turning to him, messing up his spray-dyed pink hair in the cracked and crooked mirror. "I got bored."

"You didn't even collect you **r** tips. Are you sure you're feeling fine? I've been meaning to talk to you about it," Jaehyun speaks in tentative syllables, defusing a bomb with his fingers tied together and watching as Sicheng applies a thin layer of lip gloss to his lips. 

"Shiro is gone. He's nothing to me. Gone. I don't ne **e** d him. I don't want to talk about him or give him the pleasure of even having his name be heard out loud," Sicheng says in cut out sentences, finally turning to face Jaehyun with darkened e **y** es. "Aren't you going to dress? You look hotter in a crop top and shorts. Change before more people come in." Sicheng pats Jaehyun's chest and slips past and **o** ur of his hold. 

The halo disappears from aro **u** nd his body as Sicheng walks fo **r** th towards clothing rack, forcing the **s** inful sanctification from his body as a demon from one poss **e** ssed. There's nothing special about his walk, there's nothing interesting about the way he acted. He was normal one moment, manic the next. A nightmare wa **l** king on legs, disguised as a perfect dream wrapped in a bow. 

I **f** you look close enough, you can see **t** he scars marking his chest and back. 

If you **o** pen your mind far enough, you will realize those are just ghosts having not faded from the cemetery of memories and canvases. 

G **o** od night, my saint. Sanctify my sins when I pray.

-


	3. CH3RRY

-

Music, dra **w** ing, painting, dancing—all forms of art we acknowledge in the everyday world. It's a matter of taste and how your perspective is. It's art if it's meant to c **h** allenge societal standards. It's art if it goes against what is perceived as normal.

Sicheng is art, masked behind dark brown hair, innocent, coff **e** e-ground eyes, and dark clothing. If you strip away the fibers, the layers, you will fi **n** d an epiphany of multichormatic lights, gold and silver poured perfectly into platinum waterfalls. An ever-changing form—an angel of sorts, he roams the Earth without his toes touching the ground.

Sicheng is art, but he too creates **i** t, and like light, it illuminates the stage with every feather-like stroke of his fingers, every twist and turn he performs. 

You don't see **t** hat in many people this solemn day, for the people masked dark brown hair, innocent, coffee-ground eyes, and dark clothing are hidden by none other than fear. They're too scared to live, so they hide behind normalcy and prejudice. 

There is no creativity. Children are to be seen with their mothers at all times. Mothers are to be under the regulation of their husbands. There's no such thing as _unique_ anymore. Unique is too creative. They use _special_ now. 

And Sicheng is _special_. Ten is _special._ Jaehyun is _special._ Every contradi **s** tinction and artist is so utterly _special_ , but brought upon with a frown. Humour stems from the utmost pits of depression, art forms from tears and a story.

To be _special_ is **t** o be sad, to be _normal_ is to be happy. In 2143, everyone must be happy. Depression is hidden under a thick layer of pure consternation. No one is truly happy. Being sad is too creative. 

Creativity peaks when Sicheng wraps his r **i** ght leg around the slim metal pole and swings, body angled in a diagonal while his right arm lay outstretched beside his head, his left leg pointed with a tendu. But it wasn't strength that made Sicheng mesmerizing, it was the way he captivated everyone with his delicacy. There were no sharp, unorganized movements in his free-styled performance. He burned through the perfor **m** ance with complete subitos, ritardandos, accelerandos, and more. He turned movements into music, though the patter of his feet remained unheard. 

He held charisma, for it wasn't about the performanc **e** in the end, but about the persuasion. Can you convince someone to do something without saying a word? Can you bite your lip, hood your eyes, frown, all in good terms of sensuality and erotica? This was not a dance contest, nor a music recital. This was contraband in the purest form. There is no purity involved. 

So when Sicheng thrust his hips into the air, a forearm draped over his eyes, he didn't say sorry. When he trailed his fingers over his glit **t** er-freckled thighs and licked his lips, he didn't say sorry. When he kissed the lips of a stranger, biting down without remorse, he didn't say sorry.

He didn't apologize for his actions. He was reckless, like a firefly flying through fire. To touch his skin was to touch silk, and to kiss his lips was to taste cherry. 

"Cherry!" Men older, younger, called along the perimeters of the stage, wads of cash held crumpled in their clammy hands. Cherry was an identity, n **o** t a name. It was an idiom, a metaphor, and a preamble to what  Sicheng was. A blinding surgical light cutting through your eyes with sparks of red. Words, jumbled and mixed, align perfectly to create sentences. See how it works now?

"Good job, Cherry," Ten grinned up at Sicheng, p **l** acing a hand to his bare forearm. "You've got glitter on your cheeks."

Sicheng swallow **e** d and nodded, his breathing slightly erratic as he wiped at his cheeks with open palms. The cheers had died down, as did the lighting. From the dist **a** nce, as Sicheng walks further into the back stage, he heard a roar of low-pitched whoops and cheers. Implying it was for Ten, Sicheng walked further, then off. 

From the small set of steps, Sicheng walked off from the backstage area and into the main room. Hidden behind the crowd of men, he found himself sitting at the bar. There was no plastic di **v** ider separating him and the bartender. It's skin on skin. Finger against fing **e** r.

Warmth is something Sicheng never found home in. It started out as a fear of his as a child, scared of open f **l** ames. He couldn't light the candles at her burial, but no one could blam **e** him, could they? They put a warm hand on the small of his back, and he would turn around, too ashamed to look into their eyes. Sicheng doesn't look into them anymore, fear of seeing something in the eyes of those foreign, something unknown to him.

 He beg **a** n his explaination like this, Eyes are said to be the door to the soul, but, truthfully, that's bullshit. Why would anyone let our soul go so easily? So simply—it makes falling in lo **v** e seem ridiculous, not that it needed anymore help on achi **e** ving that title. Love—in any form, in any way—is ridiculous. You need to stop finding comfort in the hand on the small of your back, but rather in the hand on the curve of your upper thigh.

Sicheng doesn't have to **b** e drunk to feel intoxicated.

In fact, all he has to be is sober enough to push away the drinks older men offer him, sober enough to push away needy, curious hands of m **e** n who could never do anything more than create a placebo around him. He smiled—it was a fake smile, a dismissive one—yet a smile nonetheless. Curling his delicate fingers around the older's wrist—his skin under his feeling soft yet rough with age, greying and t **h** ick hairs protruding from tanned, sun-spotted skin—Sicheng pulled the man's hand off, turning his bar stool so he could stand. His feet hit the ground, and he made his way towards the private rooms. He needed a good seat in the oasis of solidarity.

There is a certain mindset people choose to be clad **i** n, one where you believe to be happy is to be accepting a dark and morose path to hit you clean off your feet. Sicheng doesn't choose to be sad, but he chose to wear such a mindset. Nothing good comes without a cause, and, most importantly, nothing good lasts forever. 

"You." The voice is dark, no sense of familiarity bleaching its tones. At first, Sicheng thought about not turning around, but whe **n** a cold, gloved hand forced its way onto his bare shoulder, his attention was captured.

Assuming it was just another touch-starved man, Sicheng force **d** upon his face a look disinterest. Upon meeting the forbidden eyes of the captivator, the breath from his lungs came trapped in his throat. However, when the gloved man forced his back against the **c** old club wa **l** ls, the breath leaves in **a** n amused gasp, tainted by a po **s** itive and mischievous burn of orange.   

"Me?" Sicheng asks back, eyebrows raised in a mocking manner as a smirk laces through his lips. 

The room was illuminated with a **s** harp turn of purple. 

3+7

-


	4. LOVE4EVA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! sorry for not updating!! i've had school and finals and honestly a whole burst or writers block. I've been writing this chapter for a few weeks but
> 
> SORRY FOR THE SHORT CHAPTER!!! i'll try to get another one up as soon as i'm done with finals and school work!
> 
> also! thank you so much for all of the support you guys have given me!!!
> 
> -soy

-

"Who are you?" The question ran through the air in complete simplicity. 

Sicheng stared at the gloved man with utmost curiosity, for the question asked isn't one he often got. From men who approached him in this informal manner, it was usually all fucks and flirts.

Once relaxed, Sicheng answered again, "Cherry."

"Cherry?" The gloved man asked, **b** rows furrowed in conf **u** sion. "No. This—" he motioned towards the stage,"—what is this?"

"This?" Sicheng stifled a laugh, tipping his chin up slightly while he rested the back of his head on the wall. "This is..." He stopped for a moment, as if pondering. "This is neoculture."

The last pa **r** t seemed to set the other male off. With an unamused scoff, he pushed a forearm against the base of Sicheng's throat, prompting the retur **n** of Sicheng's on his.

The gloved man, th **o** ugh identity hidden, revealed himself greatly by his facial characteristics: sharp eyes, drawn together by furrowed eyebrows; small, cut lips, folded by the crease of his cupids bow. His hair too was dark and, under the dim, purple lighting, presumably black. As Sicheng's eyes searched the other's for any clue to be might be, he found glass instead of irises.

"Why do you want to know?" Sicheng forced out, pressing farther into the wall to enable the flow of words. "Are you with the government? The **p** olice?" Sicheng smirked. "That's kind of hot—"

The man forced his forearm into Sichengs throat with a greater force, his face darkening in a shade of new-found anger, frustration.

Sicheng saw this as a minor thr **e** at, the sirens in his mind erupting in silent wails. His heart rate picked up, and, although this was preferable, he was in a position of life or death. There was no panic in his eyes, nor in his face, but his mind was searching for an outlet. Rolling his eyes back, Sicheng parted his lips and withered.

From the first go, the arm on his throat loosened with implied co **n** fusion. At the second gasp and shudder, the arm moved and a hand was sprawled against his shoulder, holding Sicheng down.

With the weight gone, Sicheng gasped for air, but the man in front of him la **y** barren. With a tone of agitation, the shorter placed his fingers onto Sicheng's forearm, grip leaving bruising kisses along the honey skin. There was an **o** ther harsh tug and a stiff bang of a head colliding with a wall, there was a thin whimper and gasp, before it grew quiet again.

"For f **u** ck's sake, stop moaning!" The older snapped and tore his hand away from Sicheng. Sicheng stood there, head fallen back onto the cold wall, with a sly g **r** in on his lips. He has control in the most dangerous of situations. Red.

"I'm not doing anything," Sicheng mocking **l** y retorted, rubbing his forearm with a pained expression on his face. "You assa **u** lted me."

The stranger stared with a **n** almost shell-shocked gaze, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and disbelief. "I asked you a question."

"Yeah, well..." Sichen **g** drawled, looking to the ground with laced fingers. "You owe me **s** omething now.

"What?" The shorter man exclaimed impatiently, his **b** ody angled in dismissal. "I don't owe you anything. You're a criminal."

"And you're not?" S **i** cheng asked, straightening his posture with overwhelming sparks of dismay. 

"You're a different type. You're dirty."

"And what, you're clean?"

To that, **t** here was no response. 

"Look, creep. I have no fucking idea who the fuck you are and who the fuck you think you are. Leave me alone before I call security." Sicheng's voice gr **e** w void of any teasing aftertaste, only turning more and more bitter as he recollected himself and moved to slip out of the stranger's grip.

There was a conflicted expression in the other man's eyes, gazing over Sicheng as if he was surprised at his outburst. Based on the man's build, he could have stopped Sicheng from walking away by simply pushing h **i** s leg out or pinning him to the floor, yet Sicheng walked with his back painted purple in the light, and his heart o **n** fire. 

Sweet addiction—it's what Sicheng's walls were painted of. Sweet addiction—it's why the gloved stranger, **t** hrough aggression and confusion, did nothing to stop Sicheng from turning on his heel and leaving. There was silence, a still rumble through the club that was felt thr **o** ugh what was left of the Earth. There was silence, and even through the music, cheers, and laughter, it was heard clearly without a beat missing. 

The world was falling from orbit, plummetin **g** into the deep, abyssal doors Sicheng wore in place of his eyes. For a moment, all was still and forgotten. For a moment, it was as if all knowledge was left forgotten behind the curtains of eyelashes and eyelids. It's quick—so fast, you can't remember it. Every b **l** ink leads to another, then another, unfolding **a** new sector of the imaginary world you build to serve as a coping mechanism.

How many breath **s** can you take in a minute? If you try hard enough, you can take none. How many times do you blink in a minute? If you're tired enough, you can round your total to one. Sleep forever, love forever. Choose which one you want carefully, or else you might as well fall in love with the concept of death. What a shame it would be to fall in love with death.

What a shame it would be to see him off with a blank expression as his figure disappeared behind red curtains. What a shame.

 **S** hame.

 _Your scent is so good, even more sweet._  
_My heart is pounding, what's wrong with me._  
_Now I can only see you, love4eva._

 _Even my kidney is pounding, I think I'm sick._  
_Now I can't hide my heart._  
_I'm sweetly addicted, more and more, love4eva._

-  
  
  
  



	5. PENi5LAND

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!
> 
> it's been like???? 8 years since i updated and i owe any reader an apology. i recently traveled to (and im still in) my home country, so i didnt have time to update or write or anything.
> 
> im really insecure about this chapter because of its inconsistency and length. i had planned much more for this chapter, but after i hit the 5000 word mark, i decided i should move it.
> 
> as always, thank you for reading!
> 
> please comment!! i appreciate it a lot and it motivates me!
> 
> happy happy
> 
> —soy

-

Bring me _your_ hands.

_Whisper to me, sweetly._

_Sweetly._

**_Sweeter._ **

"Nakamoto Yuta."

The s **y** llables rang through the cold, metallic air.

"Na-ka-mo-t **o** Yu-ta." The voice broke into giggles. "Fun to say, isn't it?"

"Shut up, Donghyuck."

"You sh **u** t up, Mark," Donghyuck sneered in the direction of the older boy, one with dark hair disheveled and eyes slit into a glare.

Yuta remained quiet beneath the nagging, the childish people he surrounded himself with served him with no joy anymore. It's gone, yes, and the feeling—numb.

Numb. Is that a feeling? Maybe the identification of a state of being, but a step forward from where Yuta was nonetheless. There was no feeling of humanity left in his hollo **w** shell. His eyes, glass, were covered in a matte plastic coating. There was no he anymore. There was only _it_.

He doesn't know when it started, or maybe he did. Maybe it started when he was recruited for the Clan of Ghost. Maybe it was when his parents cast him out. Maybe it was when the war started. Or, perhaps, the more reasonable explanation would be that all of these events played in on his emotionless stupor.

Sweeter.

Say **i** t.

"Yuta, where were you last night?" Donghyuck asked, his feet dangling slightly from the office desk. It was innocent, nothing more than an honorific-less query. He was a Blue.

"Mission." It was al **l** he could say. It had been true, but the details he could share were scarce. They'd understand.

"Mission?" Mark's voice had risen in assertiveness and worry. "I wasn't informed of this mission. Is there any way I could have helped, Yuta-sensei?"

Yuta sighed, his fingers reaching over to sort the pens on his desk into height order. "I'm afraid not, Red." His gaze never **l** eft the table. "Missions for Masters are something you are yet to reach through training. Need not worry, level eights and nines will be the first to be informed if there was ever a time I, or whomever, was in dire need of help."

Yuta didn't have to look up to know that Mark was frustrated, though when he did, he saw that M **a** rk's expression was coated in a worried sense of professionalism and panic.

"Of course, master. I wi **l** l always be of assistance." Mark bowed with his head.

Donghyuck behind him had slid off the desk, his throat protruding a mocking laugh and a sly "loser", before he elbowing Mark in the side.

"Hey!" Mark retorted, elbo **w** jutting out to ram it back into Donghyuck, who had, with a laugh, jumped away with his arms placed in front of him.

Glee. Bliss. Laughter. Yuta observed the colourful sight of red and blue mixing, colliding, breathing, but he didn't feel it. It wasn't in his heart, every last drop that screamed _human_ was drained from him.

Yuta saw. He couldn't feel. He was covered head to toe in blood-drenched cloth, and it weighed heavy on his egg-shell heart.

The Clan of Ghosts started when the government began to corrupt. Underground, the society kept hidden as it conspired, running an **a** nti-government agenda since the third World War. Recruiting boys and girls off the street, they fostered them, fed them, trained them, dehumanized them. They were happier, they were better, they were ghosts.

Sorted by three colours, red, blue, and yellow, they all joined forces to fight silent wars and wordless battles. The Redkind dealt with physical missions, training in strength and weaponry and taking missions involving espionage or gang fights. Bluekind dealt with medicine, which involved both healing wounded Redkind and doing scientific studies on the medicinal value of polluted plants. Yellowkind, otherwise known as the smartest, dealt with engineering, programming, and hacking. Each branch was different and separated by halls and lessons. As each member progresses in levels, they match their difficultly and increase their training as well their academics.

Well, **y** ou don't really care about that.

You care about why things are the way they are, why things continue the way they do. Curious little thing, aren't you?

"I'm curious, however. How is your training going, Red? Getting ready for the test?" Yuta asked, his gaze falling back to the mahogany of the desk. It wasn't real curiou **s** ity that prompted him to ask the question. The question itself was a mere filler of silence and a mask to hide the forged signature of humanity in Yuta's veins.

Mark straightened, his cheeks flushed and posture tight. "Yes, of course, sir. I am studying thoroughly each day and night."

"Pfft, if only. Last I saw you, you were toppling over your own tears when I beat you at Mario Kart," Donghyuk cut in, his **b** ack again pressed against the table, and a smirk swallowing his lips.

"Donghyuk!" Mark exclaimed with closed lips, a sharp side-glance thrown with such velocity, Yuta himself could feel the icy breeze.

"I'm just telling the truth!" Donghyuk raised his arms in defense, eyes to the ground. "Never li **e** to your elders."

Mark opened his mouth to say something, eyebrows and lips curved in ugly defense. Before more than a word could be uttered, Yuta cut in to disperse the fog that had clouded the room.

"Of course. You too, Lee Donghyuck, make sure you study and keep your friend on track. In the future, you may well be the Bluekind who will keep Lee Mark from dying."

The smile Donghyuk wore dissipated as reality seeped in. The World War was a problem, but the silent war against the government and rouge gangs was the one that was most likely to end the lives o **f** many Ghosts.

"Yes, sir," is all Donghyuk said, before his feet slid towards the door and a second pair followed.

"Have a go **o** d day, sir."

-

"Are you sure you should be telling me this?" Mark asked, his voice hushed as he stared at Donghyuk through the dim candle lighting.

"Yes. Do you want to know the missio **n** location or what?" Donghyuk hissed back, tossing an ink pen towards Mark.

"I do, I do. What if someone finds this?" Mark questioned, pressing the pen down as he gets ready to write.

"God, just shut up." The smile Donghyuk tried to hide faded into annoyance as Mark began to worry. "Alright just listen closely. It's in English."

As Donghyuk dictated, Mark wrote, fingers shaking in disobedient adrenaline.

Once finished, Mark pulled back and read aloud, but grimace **d**. "Hyuk.."

He recited the location again, before crumpling up the small sheet of paper and throwing it to the ground.

"Fuck you."

"So you get it?" Donghyuk laughed, clapping his hands together.

"God, fuck you. You act like you're twelve," Mark groaned, falling back onto his bed sheets.

"Closer to twelve than I am to thirty, baby," the younger grinned, falling back next to Mark.

"Closer to fucking death if you keep testing me in front of Yuta." Mark stared holes into the younger's face before slapping a limp hand to the face of the younger, fingers covering Donghyuk's eyes, nose, cheeks, and lips.

"Hey!" Donghyuk objected, gripping at Mark's wrist. "Get your sweaty-ass hands away from my face!"

The dark room, illuminated only by the small bedside lamp, was filled to the brim with laughter, and soon, the boys were swimming in smiles. The walls were clean, a pure white reflecting the golden lamp light like a mirror. J **o** y, however, was drowned out by loud, echoing footsteps, which traveled down the empty halls of the Redkind dormitories. The sound made the boys freeze and quiet, stiffled laughs being smothered out by clammy hands.

"Hide, for fuck's sake!" Mark whispered out a laugh, his hands tripping over themselves as he threw the blanket over Donghyuk's head and proceeded to throw himself under as well.

The footsteps stopped at Mark's door, the echoing fading into white noise of the dormitory hall. There's a silence, so thick and promising, that Mark's head resurfaced, and his eyes opened. His eyes quickly flew shut as the door flew open, the shadow of the Redkind administrator painting the dim illumination of the hallway black.

"Lee Minhyung." The voice of the administrator carried far in the small room, though it was quiet enough to only prove assertion and anger without alerting or waking others. Nonetheless and **f** rankly, the shit in Mark was scared out of him.

"Yes, Takamori-san?" Mark carefully sat up, not only to show formality, but to cover the motionless lump that lay to the right of him.

Truthfully, Mark knew both what was coming and _why_ it was coming.

"Lee, do you have any idea what time it is and what troubles you could have caused?" Mark swallowed at the words, his eyes unwavering.

"Yes, ma'am. I am very sorry. I couldn't sleep and decided to—"

"Not excusable! You know the curfew and as a soldier, you must follow it. Take advantage of silent activities like reading and studying." Her voice ate through the paper walls, bleeding into Mark's ears, and leaving skid marks from the instantaneous fear it left in him.

"What's going on here?" A newer voice, a deeper voice—more familiar voice cut through the temperamental voice of the female superior.

"Yuta-kun, it's good you awoke. Please speak to your student about behavior." The superior stated, her neatly dressed leg turned outward with a blinding scrape of her heel.

Yuta nodded, but all he could focus on was the thin angle of her narrow eyes, the beauty **m** ark sitting atop her cheekbone, the sharp edge of her jaw. He drew a tight, respectful smile onto his lips, but his eyes drew onto her bare collarbones and neck, the skin not covered by her collared suit.

_Touch._

_Touch._

_Touch._

_Touch_.

No.

Yuta breath **e** d out a laugh and placed a hand on her clothed shoulder with a gloved hand. "Of course, ma'am. I will make sure nothing similar to this happens again."

With a curt nod, the superior dismissed Yuta and turned once again to the room Mark occupied. "And for Christ's sake, Lee, _please_ clean up after yourself. You can't possibly still be untrained to not even have the decency to clean papers up off of the floor." Those were the final words she had said before the only sound that cut the silence was the click of her heels as she walked toward the doors **.**

"You two have to be more careful next time," Yuta sighed, footing two steps into the room. "This is the first and last time I will cover for you without major consequences. You're trained better than to be so careless, Red. You're almost a level 9."

Shame seeped into Mark, but the rigid mask he wore clinged tightly to his skin. "Of course, sir. Both **I** and Donghyuk-kun should have been more careful."

"Hey, don't pin me in with this," Donghyuk raised his arms in defense before Mark nudged him in the side. Donghyuk cocked his eyebrow, testing him, and Mark reluctantly decided against saying anything else.

"And seriously, both of you, do not leave trash on the floors," Yuta breathed out and bent down to pick up the balled sheet of lined paper, then proceeded to shove it in his jacket pocket, missing the way Mark's throat tightened.

"Now—" Yuta started, but was interrupted by a loud noise and buzz coming from the thin mission board in his pocket.

Humanity drained from Yuta's eyes as his back straightened and faced the two dazed boys. "Excuse me."

Following the path to the dormitory exit, Yuta took the tablet from his pocket and tapped the red notification on the screen.

Sooner or late **r** , Yuta found himself in the missions room once again, awaiting detailed orders that have been sent out by a superior.

Equipment ready and clad in gear, Yuta made his way to a little bar, south of the Tokyo center.

 _NCTi7CITY_.

-

The n **e** on lights, the fog, the pulsing music left unheard inside soundproof walls—it was all familiar as Yuta descended down the narrow set of stairs that led to the basement of the bar. Though the music was unheard, the energy ri **p** ped through his veins the closer he got to the metal door. Gripping the handle, he twisted, waited, then opened the passageway to a heavenly hell.

Music, though quiet, pulsed through his head, and all he could see was neon. Neon lights—pink, purple, blue—illuminated Yuta's features—sharp nose and stone-set jaw, glass eyes and tight, **r** ope-like lips. Sensory overload, it seemed, piled on by the smell of alcohol and taste of salt and sweat.

_Touch._

_Touch._

_Touch._

Yuta brok **e** away from his thoughts as he remembered his mission. Distracting, it was. The metal in his head was ringing with loud sirens, a cacophony of rhythmic club music and **s** creeching. He was on edge. His skin was tight, jaw straight, arms tense.

R **e** lax.

"Relax, tough guy. Need a drink?" A soft voice lured Yuta from complete sensory **n** umbness. He looked around, his body closer to the stage and closer to the smell of alcohol that he remembered it being.

Looking to where the voice came from, Yuta came in con **t** act with the polished wooden bar counter, alcohol, and a head of blonde hair. Tipping his head up, he met eyes with a woman. A woman? A woman. Fascinating.

"Women work here?" The words slipped from his lips with curiosity as he took a mental note and a seat.

"Good! He's gay _and_ new," she exclaimed wi **t** h slight sarcasm, but the warm smile on her lips while she wiped down a glass turned the mood upside down. "Jins **o** ul," the girl had said whilst tightening the blue rubber band that sat as a stark outlier on her loose bombshell-blonde hair.

"What?" Yuta asked, confused at the confrontation. Before he knew it, a glass, small, full of green liquid was slid to him.

"What what?" Jinsoul flipped the question back with her eyebrows raised. "Drink. You look like you might punch the next person you see."

Yuta paused, his lips slightly parted and e **y** ebrows furrowed. "So let me get this straight, women _do_ work here."

With wide eyes, the girl n **o** dded her head and pursed her lips. "I guess I wouldn't be working here if they didn't. We interchange. Every other _other_ day women work. Like, how we only operate every other day, every operating day we interchange, except Fridays, when both men and women work for private room a **u** ctioning."

Yuta nodded, jaw tensed as he gritted his teeth and stared down at the toxic green liquid still poured and placed beneath his folded arms. "And what is this place? What do you do here? What is private room auctioning?"

The happy, relaxed expression on Jinsoul's faded into confused worry. Her back straightened, and Yuta's eyes w **a** tched the bleach-blonde braid fall back behind her shoulders. "Listen, I don't think you should be here."

"What?" He questioned, expression changing from frustration to panic as his on **l** y source of information moves onto the next person at the bar table.

Questions were running through his mind, the first and brightest being _what_ did he word or say wrong that turned Jinsou **l** away. With a curse forming on his thin lips, he began to stand, only to be pushed down and mounted right into **t** he wooden backed bar stool.

"Whats the rush, big guy?" The voice was familiar—too familiar, in fact the moment Yuta's eyes began to observe the warm body seated in **h** is lap, his mind was drowned out with emotions —most coloured a blue raspberry shade of blue—and confusion.

"You—do you not know—do you not rem **e** mber me?" Yuta stumbled over words and cursed himself for it. He was built to kill organizations and gangs and governments and cults and more but _never_ in his training was he taught to withstand the temptation and apprehen **s** ibility of an illegal coed strip club.

"Of course I remember you. How can I forget?" He spoke with words soaked in red w **i** ne, each consonant like a slice of rich chocolate cake adorned with drunk, red cherries and cream.

It was distracting, the exposed shoulder and collarbo **n** es slipping from his loose sleeveless shirt he had on. And the glitter—for fuck's sake—the glitter **s** tretching golden mirrors across the tanned skin almost reflected the nerves that swam in Yuta's blood. No, he wasn't entirely prepared to be ambushed b **y** wide eyes and cherry-like lips.

 _Touch_.

 _Touch_.

"Winwin, st **o** p troubling the man." Yuta recognized this to be the voice of Jinsoul, and relief was once again drowned o **u** t by confusio **n**. Why was she helping him now?

"Winwin?" And another question. That cannot b **e** a name, unless—

Yuta studied the man o **v** er again.

Is he Thai? Unnecessary question. Nec **e** ssary question. Was this—

The boy—Cherry—Winwin—flinched at the recall, but if Yuta noticed, he wouldn't be able to sense the fear behind the confident, b **r** ight red smirk that he wore on his lips.

"That's my name, babe. Don't wear it out."

Yuta stared up at Winwin, eyes lost and **h** eart hammering in his chest with fight-or-flight adrenaline.

His hands were cold and, truthfully, his hands were never cold. He was distracted, his gu **a** rd let down. It was over. It was gone.

"Aw," He cooe **d**. "Your hands are smaller than mine."

"Give it back!" Yuta exclaimed, his sharp Japanese burning holes into the wood. He felt foolish, ridiculed. Years of training, brainwashing, abuse, but he succumbed do his ignorant brain and le **t** down his barriers. And for what? For whom? A scrawny boy with thick lips and toxic tongue, one with dark red circles rimming his eyes and scars painting his **h** oney skin with white bruises.

Foolish, derisible, Yuta sat with flames in his **e** yes and rocks in place of teeth, his voice like gravel, and his tongue as heavy as a stone. He watched the boy slip off his lap, the black glove forming contrast over his left hand.

"What, this?" Winwin shook his left hand, the innocen **c** e in his eyes muffled by the greedy grin he had painted on his face. "I don't think so."

"I'll kill y **o** u," Yuta gritted his teeth, calloused fingers curling into stiff fists.

"Baby, if yo **u** wanted to, you would have done it al **r** eady." Winwin's eyelids dropped into an unimpressed and powerful gaze, his bare hand weaving through the stitches of Yuta's hair and pulling, hard enough to make a human wince.

Infuriated **a** nd powerless, Yuta watched the boy lean close, his face disappearing to the side of Yuta's head. He felt the way Winwin inhaled, the way the breaths **g** razed the sensitive shell of his ear. He could sm **e** ll his bergamot-jasmine skin as it was laced in the musty smell of sweat. Hypersensitive. He couldn't break the feeling of fire ants on his skin as he itched to break from the submission, but to also submit to the carnal, human need **t** o _feel_ , to _need_ , to

 _Touch_.

"Now." There was another tug, a breath, a pause. "Be a g **o** od boy and take the drink Jinsoul kindly made for you."

Yuta wasn't familiar with this feeling, not used to the way needles pressed into his stoma **c** h and thighs. The colours of the room changed for the millionth time that night, but Yuta noticed all to **o** well how the red faded to blue to red to blue as the **m** uffled trap song in the background blasted bass into his head.

Maybe he was too intoxicated to think, to focus, to build his walls back up again, to notice the boy toss his head back with his sharp wrists and grip his jaw. Maybe he was too intoxicated to care.

Nonsense. Yuta was a trained soldier, a weapon built of diamond, **m** ade to withstand temptat **i** on, pain, emotion. He was red. He was a Red. He was Redkind, the best of the best.

He opened his mouth to speak, to strike spears into his enemy, but the boy had been long gone, and the only trace he left was the goose bumps and body glitter on Yuta's skin.

"Shi **t**."

Blue **.**

-

 


End file.
